chapter 1
. . .
BEAU
What’sthe best way to get out of a blind date?
Say you’re not feeling well?
No, too generic. Too obvious.
Act like you’re going and have “car trouble” on the way there?
Too much of a dick move, letting them waste their time thinking you’ll show up.
Maybe I could tell the truth.
Say, “Hey, sorry, my meddling sister signed me up for this service, but I really wasn’t looking for a scent match.”
Who am I kidding? Everyone loves the idea of having a scent match.
I just never expected the service to work. It’s rare enough to be unlikely, but common enough to always be a possibility if luck is on your side.
I don’t feel lucky. I feel old and tired, and like I really should’ve checked my closet before agreeing to a dinner date at a nice restaurant on fucking Valentine’s Day.
With a scowl at my lackluster appearance in the mirror, I rip my worn dress shirt off and toss it toward the hamper, where it lands on the floor beside it. The scar from my shoulder surgerygreets me when I glance back at my reflection, peeking out of my undershirt along with my overabundant chest hair.
My frown deepens.
This is a terrible idea.
I pull my phone out of the pocket of my too-loose pants, purchased for a funeral at least five years ago, and, after resisting the urge to send a cancelation text, call Nadine.
“You can’t cancel.” My sister’s voice is sharp as she answers the phone.
“Canceling would be better than going like this,” I groan, also forgoing any sort of greeting.
“Like what?” Nadine scoffs. “Like a whiny baby, and not a grown-ass alpha who has the privilege of taking hisscent-matchedomega on a first date?”
“No, like an alpha who doesn’t go anywhere besides work, the rink, and the shelter.”
I’m back at my wardrobe, futilely carding through my clothes hoping to unearth something that won’t make me look like a mess. Worn out flannels, stained t-shirts and an abundance of gym shorts are all that greet me, taunting me with my lack of style or social life.
There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line, followed by a dramatic sigh. “Beau. Sweet, beautiful, dumb baby brother.” I can practically hear her eyes roll. “It’s 7:30 am. Thanks for waking me up, by the way. I was having a really steamy dream about Manny’s pack.”
I grimace. “Gross, I don’t want to know about your sex dreams. Especially if they’re about my teammate.” Nadine is crushing hard on a bunch of the guys in the community hockey league I play in, but Manny is her favorite.
“Like you haven’t dreamed about it either. The man is fine, especially in his hockey gear. Oh, that’s an idea! Wear your gear. Hockey players are hot right now.”
That pulls a snort from me. “Hockey gear that, and I quote directly from you, ‘smells like Satan’s asshole’? The idea is for my date to swoon because they’re into me, not because they’re passing out because of toxic fumes.”
Nadine laughs, and the tension that’s been buzzing in my chest eases a bit. There’s always been something about my sister’s laugh that can pull me out of a funk. Even during the darkest times, her laughter was one of the few signs that maybe life wasn’t complete and utter shit devoid of meaning.
“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that your date isn’t until tonight. Go to the fucking mall on your lunch break and buy yourself a new outfit.”
“I took the day off,” I admit.
It feels ridiculous that I took the whole day off because I knew I’d be spiraling too hard about my date to focus. But not focusing can get you hurt or make you break things when you’re a mechanic.
